Apprentice
by Sansi Hall
Summary: Atmos is the world of Sky Knights and Talons, where emotions broil and people clash. One girl is caught up, like all those who seek the freedom of Atmosia, in this chaos. Under the lone wolf Starling's guidance, anything is possible.
1. Chapter 1

Howdee, readers! This is my first Storm Hawks Fanfiction, my first Fanfiction at all, indeed, so please be gentle if I'm not down with the groove and all that. Heh. But I hope you enjoy!

And, since I'm not Asaph Fipke, I don't own the Storm Hawks. Do I own Weaver? I hope so. Possibly though she doesn't agree.

* * * * * * * * * *

**SHARDS**

Broken glasses in the tavern used to be a rarity. Not any more.

A plate exploding against an upturned table. Smashed mugs, half a chair. Weaver only caught glimpses of a few solid things in the mêlée. Well, that solid was subjective. All she knew was that her wooden bar was _definitely_ solid, and she was _definitely_ hidden behind it, and if no one noticed her, well so much the better. But she had a metal pipe clenched in one hand. Just in case.

Sure, in a tavern, brawls were a given. But they use to be conducted with a kind of reverence for the establishment. The given was that if the tavern got smashed up...you didn't drink there any more. For one thing, there'd be nothing to sit on, if you used the chairs for weapons. And for another thing, there were generally more than a few reg'lar like customers who'd be happy to king-hit the fella what smashed up the keg and all the good glasses right out the door.

But...these brawls, they were different.

The brawlers, for a start.

Cyclonians. Talons. Since they started coming in, every night, the reg'lar customers moved on. Drifted away to greener pastures. Well, safer pastures. Everyone had heard rumours about Cyclonians, and even the guy who sat in the corner with the dark hood and the scars didn't want to find out first hand if they were true. So the only ones who drank at the tavern now wore green and red and smug grins. And they expected new chairs the next day.

Weaver slunk towards the door. The brawl would keep going until nobody was conscious. Why Cyclonians thought smashing up their own wing-men was a good way to relax, she'd never know. She suspected it had something to do with working for an evil tyrant. But she did know that just now, while _that_ guy flung the bottle at _that_ mob over there, and _that_ guy who was moaning on the ground grabbed _that _guy's ankle, she could kind of leap from behind this table and- there. Out the door.

All the Sky Knights really ought to do to defeat Cyclonia was build a huge tavern.

* * * * * * * * * *

"We've got no more cups." Weaver ran her fingers over the remains of a wine glass. The shards sparkled as she brushed them. There was a glisten of blood on one jagged piece.

"Good! They can drink out of a trough, for all I care." Her father, Gyro. Shrivelled and dark as a date, lanky and permanently scruffy. He was perched on the edge of a chair that was missing its back. It was the only one with four legs, actually. His skinny legs were stretched out in the rubble. Last night had been...particularly bad. Weaver frowned. Did that mean anything?

"Papa! Your bar. You've never even...the reputation of the bar is at stake!"

"Pah. Whut reputation would that be? Nobody but Cyclonians drinks here no more anyhow. And I don't want no share of their reputation."

"What ever you say. I'm off to make cups...leaves'll have to do, or something, I 'spose."

"Weaver?" His face was a maze of deep lines, when he frowned.

"Yeah, papa?" She half turned, looking over her shoulder at him.

"Y'know I don't want you working in the tavern. I'd rather ye did sommat with your cousins on the farm..."

"I know. But I want to. It's for the best, pa." The girl strode out, kicking through the debris. Sturdy boots, a requirement of life on Terra Tarlk_. Here there be mud_. Weaver smirked to herself.

Mud and trees and a life of honest work and best of all, the tavern. It had a name. Tarlk Tavern. Not very original, admittedly, but it did the job and on Terra Tarlk, that was all anybody could expect of you.

Now, Tarlk Tavern...Weaver had heard so many stories about the history of the tavern that it seemed almost like a tiny country. It had seen its fair share of rebellions and people who thought they ought to be kings and queens, and it'd seen golden times to. Only now, it was seeing Cyclonian time and Weaver couldn't imagine that it'd ever recover. It didn't seem as though Atmos would ever recover, either.

Through the dark pines, Weaver could see tattered clouds flagging against the blue sky. Fine weather, though the chill in the air and the whispering of the trees promised snow. Weaver felt her spirits lift. It was still...beautiful here. Behind her, smoke still curled joyfully from the tavern's chimney. In front of her, as she loped along the tiny, winding forest path, a skimmer plummeted lazily through the trees.

Wait. What?

Weaver watched. There was no other word but astonishment. She could practically feel her jaw unhinge. Sure, sure, Talons were strange fliers in her opinion, but it was midday, no time for drinking, and besides, from what she could make out, this skimmer was a kind of tannish, darkish colour, not red and cold grey. But there were things that rode on skimmers that weren't Talons that'd still...well, some of them would eat her. Twas what the rumours said, anyhow. She slipped between two dense pines, crouched amongst the ferns and fallen branches.

Whoever was ridding the skimmer didn't want anybody to see it. They'd shrouded it under the shadowy branches of a grove of trees, dulling the glinting metallic surfaces with leaves. Who'd want to hide their skimmer, on Terra Tarlk? Weaver's knowledge of Atmosian politics was limited, but serviceable- Cyclonia = evil empire. Considered to be keen on expanding said empire. Atmos = free world. Protected by Sky Knights. Others = good and bad. It generally just depended on the situation. Or your perspective.

Hm. So someone who was not a Talon was hiding their skimmer on Terra Tarlk...generally considered to be the 'local pub' for Talons. So an…enemy of Cyclonia. So a good guy? Were there any people who wouldn't mind eating her who were enemies of Cyclonia? Argh. She had no idea. There was only one thing to do, in a situation like this!

Sneak closer and have a look at the potentially-hungry-skimmer-rider. Obvious, really.

Forest floors were a lot cracklier to stalk through than Weaver had expected. She crept slowly, putting one foot down softly before even thinking about the other one. Sticks, where she swore there had been no sticks before, broke under her boots. The girl was hunched as low as she could, which, for an awkward and unproportionate fifteen year old, was not very, and tried to sound like a creature of the woods. Given, a rather heavy, slow creature of the woods, which had to push saplings out of the way. But a creature of the woods, stealthily moving undetected towards the mysterious skimmer and its possibly voracious rider.

The reality was rather disappointing. Weaver could make out the skimmer now. It was tan and indigo and silver, and the indigo symbol on its retracted wing panel looked rather unviscious. In fact, the longer she looked at it, the more it seemed to be familiar. Definitely friendly looking- a Sky Knight.

The rider had vanished before Weaver reached the skimmer. Well, nothing for it. Weaver risked an admiring glance at the ride and then stumbled out onto the path. Cups, cups, she had to find cups. And now that she thought about it, benches instead of chairs would be a good idea. Harder to pick up and smash over somebody's head.

* * * * * * * * * *

The tavern's yard was empty of any skimmers as Weaver pushed the gate open with her hip. But she caught snatches of a low conversation, drifting out of the tavern's wide, open doorway. She could recognise her father's voice, but the other was unfamiliar. Weaver squinted through the sun glare that reflected off the tavern's white walls. Through the doorway, she could just make out a thin figure leaning against the bar. The room was shadowy, but it looked female- the speaker that she didn't know. The Sky Knight! Quick, light footsteps carried Weaver across the dirt to the tavern's front wall. She crouched in the dust, her arms full of mugs and cups and glasses, and possibly a goblet digging into her ribs.

"Gyro, I can't tell you how grateful I am. The information you gather is invaluable," the accent was clipped, a light, female voice.

"Oh, Sky Knight, only doin' my civic duty," gruff, raspy. Weaver's father.

"Still...should harm come to you..."

"Pah! You mean this mess? Small price, to have Cyclonians babbling their drunken hearts out right in front of me. But there is one matter. We discussed it...you prob'ly don't remember..." Gyro's voice quavered with uncertainty.

"I remember. But Gyro, you said yourself; she _chose_ to keep working in the tavern. Her love of this place, and you, is still much stronger than any hate she might feel for the Talons. There is no need!"

"But Starling, Interceptor, it is so dangerous for her here!"

"And you think it would be any less dangerous, you think if she were with me she would be any safer?" The voice rang out, laced with bitterness. "No! That is definitely not true. You can keep her safer here."

"One day, Sky Knight, you'll see that--"

Weaver's load cascaded out of her arms and clattered across the wooden floor. Her palms hit the floor, and she caught herself before her nose made impact. Damn. Leaned in to hear just a little too far...

Thin boots, brown leather with armour shin-guards. Weaver looked up, stifled a groan. She could make out a face, haloed with purple, spiked hair. Two olive eyes- staring at her. Weaver flashed a grin.

Starling appraised the girl with a cold stare. She was twig thin and gangly, but her arms and legs showed evidence of the heavy lifting that came with shifting kegs and broken furniture. Short, brown, practical hair. With her sprawled on the floor, Starling couldn't make out how she held herself; but there was the bright spark of confidence in her brown eyes. The grin- wide, showing two rows of white teeth- was defiant. And silly.

"Get up," snarled Starling.

Gyro had moved quietly from behind the bar, gathering the spilled cups. Weaver shot a pleading glance towards him but he ignored her, pushing in an errant chair. So he'd managed to find tables and chairs, then. The Sky Knight nudged at her arm with a boot. It wasn't gentle. Weaver groaned and heaved herself up. Reflexively, she leaned away from Starling and avoided that steely stare.

"Yeouuch!" Weaver clutched at the back of her head, pressing down against the stinging pain. Starling's hand hovered, outstretched, in front of the woman. The irritated glare hadn't ceased.

"You're an _Interceptor_, I bet you eavesdrop on people all the time and—yeouuch!"

"_I_ don't get caught." Weaver caught the tiny tinge of smugness, dared to return the glare. Regretted it. Felt a spark of resentment; this was her tavern too. And she wasn't as immature as everyone assumed, just because she liked to grin. They _had_ been talking about her.

"Well, well, if I was with you, if you taught me how not to get caught--"

Tiny stars burst across her vision. Maybe that had been a little reckless.

"Hey, could you maybe stop doing that?!"

The Interceptor sighed, gave Gyro a two fingered salute, and brushed past Weaver.

"She'll be back," growled Gyro, "wants to check out the Talons tonight...something big going on. But just because you know, Weaver, don't mean you have to involve yourself- you stay out of it, okay?"

* * * * * * * * * *

Yep, so that's it, the first chapter. Longer than I intended but you gotta roll with the words!

So, err, feel free to review :3 and be as harsh as you like, because I honestly would prefer to know what's wrong with it than just have horrible little insecurities. Er =]]


	2. Chapter 2

So, yep, chapter two. More action. Have fun!

* * * * * * * * * *

Gyro cleaned a glass, giving the impression of absentmindedness as he swiped away with his cloth. The air was thick with smoke and warm yellow light and the heavy drone of conversation. Weaver balanced a platter on one hand; it was overloaded with plates and glasses. She caught the sidewards glance that Gyro shot to the heavily swathed figure in the corner. Saw the emerald wink in return. So, Starling could manage a sense of humour.

There was the thick growl of sky-rides in the yard. More Talons? The tavern was crowded as it was. Then the atmosphere changed. The air froze; voices stumbled and stopped. The doorway framed two figures against the darkness. Weaver did not recognize them, but they wore Cyclonian colours and held themselves with an air of superiority. She risked a glance at Starling, and then decided it was better if she made herself inconspicuous. It was never wise to stop and stare at anyone across a tavern.

The woman had magenta hair and a fierce, golden stare. At her shoulder and barely fitting in the door way was a hulk of a man, with a hooked nose and dark hair. A few Talons scrambled towards them, throwing cautious salutes.

"Commander Ravess, Commander Snipe! Is there a problem?"

The woman- Commander Ravess- sneered, and placed a hand on her hip. "Sit down, man. If there was a problem you would certainly know about it. We," she flicked her other hand languidly over her shoulder, at Commander Snipe, "have merely come to enjoy a drink with the...troops." The last word echoed with distaste. Her tone was heavy with scorn. The Talons didn't buy it, and Weaver didn't buy it, but Ravess didn't seem one to question.

The pair glided into the room. Conversation stirred again, but it did not flow so freely; fearful glances were shot at the two Commanders as they settled at an empty table. So much, then, for mingling. But they were close to Starling. Very close. Weaver watched Ravess, as the woman lounged over a wooden stool. She gave the impression of nonchalance, except for her yellow eyes. They scanned the room, flicking rapidly across the face of every drinker. Settled on Weaver's own face. The girl caught the hiccup of tension in her throat. The platter was discarded onto the bar; a notepad whipped from her belt, a pencil from behind her ear. She was at the pair's table in moments.

Snipe's grin, wide, sharp, aimless, unsettled her. But not as much as the tiny, scornful smile at the corner of Ravess' mouth.

"Will you be having drinks tonight, Commander? I can offer you an Officer's discount?" Felt the hair prickle on her neck. Ravess shifted slightly. Weaver saw her eyes flicker. To the crystal blade in her hand. Pressed against Weavers side.

"There is a Sky Knight here, girl," hissed Ravess, quietly. "Shall you tell me where he is, or shall I force him to come rescue you? That is, if he _does_ come rescue you..." The venom in her voice chilled Weaver to the bone. How did Ravess know? More importantly, what on all Atmos was Weaver supposed to do?

"I don't...know..." the words choked in Weaver's throat. She _really_ didn't want to be stabbed. It didn't figure at all on her list of things to do. But she refused to betray Starling. It'd be betraying her father, the tavern...and yes, truth and freedom and justice and honour and all those wonderful things that Atmos signed her up for.

And, Weaver felt, with Starling, it was never a certain thing. Sure, protecting lives was the Sky Knight code, but...maybe, if, in the long run, not quite protecting one life meant protecting quite a few more...Starling probably wouldn't leap to Weaver's defence. Er, hopefully that wasn't the case.

"Perhaps you'd like to think again." Ravess said the words rhythmically, almost hypnotically. Weaver could feel the blade through her leather pants now. She swallowed, and shut her eyes. It'd hurt, but at least her scream would warn Gyro and Starling.

"Perhaps you'd like your face rearranged." It wasn't a question. It was an irascible threat, accompanied by the sound of a glass being smashed. Eyes still closed, Weaver winced. She had to _return_ those- actually, considering the circumstances, it probably didn't matter.

It was Starling's voice, by her ear. Ah. She felt slightly bad about questioning the Sky Knight's moral integrity, really.

"Ah, the Interceptor!" Ravess' hiss was sheer delight. Weaver sensed rapid movement, heard at least twenty chairs scrape back. She risked a glance. Ravess was inches from Starling. With a much bigger energy blade, Weaver noted. Starling, for her part, had ditched the traditional jagged glass for nun-chucks with wicked looking purple crystals. Now seemed a pertinent time to extricate herself.

Weaver turned, and found herself facing a circle of Talons. They were brandishing blades, too, and sharky expressions.

"WEAVER!" The shout cut through the predatory atmosphere. So did her trusted metal pipe, dented veteran of many brawls. Gyro shot her a shaky grin, before darting out with his own makeshift weaponry- thick glass bottles- and clonking a Cyclonian.

She was behind an upturned table, clenching her fists around her trusted metal pipe. What series of events, exactly, had lead to her being there was rather hazy. Just a general blur of swinging her pipe and shouting and feeling many things hitting her. She risked a glance across the room. Starling was forcing her way through the Talons. Weaver winced at each kick and the thud of nun-chucks that sent Talons tumbling across the wooden floor. Snipe, hefting an immense mace, ploughed through his own men like a ship through waves with a stare that centred only on Starling. Ravess, Weaver assumed, was lying somewhere with concussion.

Gyro groaned and tried to reach to her. She could see his arm shaking and his forehead was slick with blood that glistened sickeningly in the dim tavern lights.

"You are so stupid, you know?" He only coughed and fluttered his eyelids in response. She needed to get out of this. Right out of this. No more Tavern Tarlk, as far as she could see.

"Right, papa, we've done this before. You just got to find the gap, get to the door...easy, right?"

Maybe. Maybe it was, when she was safe behind the bar right near the door and the brawlers were ignoring her because she wasn't the bloke who'd spilled that drink. Maybe, when she didn't have to worry about dragging her father with her and hoping that Starling made it out alive too.

But, unfortunately, circumstances change.

Starling moved like flames; flickering between movements, her movements barely visible. One minute she was spinning, lashing out with a kick that Snipe deflected with one swipe of his huge hands. Then she was running- running _up_ the huge man- springing into the air, and lashing down with her nun-chucks. They flared violet, washing all other colours out of the room for a split second. And then Starling was on the ground, feet set apart and shoulders squared in a fighting pose. Snipe toppled to the floor with a soft thud.

The Talons were backing away. Staring at Starling. Leaderless.

Now.

Weaver hauled Gyro into her arms and lurched to her feet. He was heavy; she couldn't lift him completely off the ground. It didn't matter! She was stumbling across the room, shoving something out of the way with her shoulder. Out the door, into the black, chilled night. Starling was behind her, and the Sky Knight lifted Gyro easily out of Weaver's arm.

Her father's eyes jerked open. He tried a lopsided smile, first for Weaver, then for Starling. Weaver held in a sob, felt her body shudder.

"Now will you take her?"

* * * * * * * * * *

Next Chapteroo in around a week or so =]] that is, unless y'all hate it. But, I hope not.


	3. Chapter 3

I lied =] less than a week!

This chapter is basically just setting up for the real fun adventures which shall begin next chapter! Please excuse any dullness =]

* * * * * * * * * *

Weaver remembered running, flailing in the dark, through the trees, to Starling's skimmer. It hadn't snowed but the clouds were low, thick, bruised. She wouldn't see the snow fall.

Starling had torn through the branches to her skimmer, but she was remarkably gentle as she lifted Gyro onto the ride. Weaver had watched numbly, but her body ached. The skimmer roared. Starling had hauled her up, behind Gyro. Her breath lurched in time with the skimmer as it whipped through the trees. Flashes of deep green. Then the dark had opened up. The wide, cleared stretch of land in front was a black silhouette against the softly glowing sky that reared up from the edge of the terra. Then they were off the edge. Gravity relinquished its hold with a jerk.

They had flown, in the night, to a tiny wayside terra. The kind of place where they weren't even spared a half glance. Starling was deft with a bandage, Weaver noted. Gyro was sleeping. She was testing the sore spots on her arms, her back, her ribs. Wondered how colourful the bruises would be. Would there be anybody she could show them off to? _Where were they going?_

Flying was cold and bright. Sunlight pooled in the wide spaces between the silky clouds above and the darker, broiling clouds that screened the wastelands. The skimmer was slow but the air was calm as they hopped between terras. Once, Weaver saw the glinting bulk of an airship, cruising steadily through the clouds. Finally they reached a green place, with paved streets and white houses. Starling offered laughing words and smiles. Gyro was fussed over, lifted gently into a crisp room. Weaver found stumbling words of goodbye.

* * * * * * * * * *

Training started hard and got harder.

She grew to know sweat and ache and tiredness. They _ingrained_ themselves into her life. Starling rose with the sun and worked until she collapsed, usually in a chair, into a deep unconsciousness. The Sky Knight slept with a frown on her face, a twinge at the corner of her mouth.

Weaver rose to the clanging of a hand on a metal bucket, until she developed an instinctive ability to wake a few seconds before the clanging. She heard the footsteps by the door and jerked into consciousness. Her days followed a worn routine; scoff bacon, learn sky fu. Scoff some sandwich-like concoction, run, and run, and run. Scoff dinner. It was the best meal. It had _variety_. Duel Starling. She had won, the first time. Walked with a swagger, thought she was ready.

Hah.

Starling had never let her leave the hard packed dirt area that served as a training arena without pressing a foot lightly onto her neck since. Sometimes locals watched. Usually they laughed, shook her hand.

Then, she fell into oblivion on her bed. It was a nice bed. That made getting out of it in the morning even crueller.

Sometimes, she asked herself _why_.

It seemed like a hard question. But it wasn't, really.

_What else was there?_

Gyro was on the clean, green terra. She presumed he was living there, somehow. And she was here, in this tiny house on Terra Atmosia. Where else was she going to go? What else could she achieve? It wasn't a matter of wanting anything. At least this way, she was gaining something. She was training under a Sky Knight- so that she could use that training against Cyclonians. Simple, actually. They'd smashed up her tavern. She could at least repay the favour.

But all the head slaps in the world couldn't break her of two habits that irritated Starling: her grin, and her instantaneous reaction in any awkward situation- she winked. The Sky Knight hated that.

"Mannerisms get you noticed. The Cyclonian you winked at in a battle might recognise you if you ever try to infiltrate a Talon camp. It will get you thrown into prison. Or killed." But the words, for all their wisdom, had no effect. She could not- would not- cease. She had picked them up from the reg'lars who used to frequent her tavern. They were her link.

Starling thought of Weaver as the basic wingman. She was no fool, and she was good. Both were truths. But she was not a leader. She performed best when there was someone there, who she trusted, who saw the big picture, directing her. That was what she was suited to.

The first thing Weaver begged for was a uniform.

It was granted, on the basis that it was a sensible request.

Then she asked when they'd start her _real _training.

Starling was running a finger down a chart on the wall. She'd been to see the Sky Council; they weren't pleased to learn about Weaver. Starling was their informant; if she was demobilized, that flow of information stopped. Weaver had tensed as Starling breezed through the door. Something was about to change. She could practically feel the Sky Knight crackling with new energy, new purpose.

"Ah...Starling?" She'd clambered out of the chair, reluctantly.

"Hmmmm...?" Starling's brow had contracted with focus. Her finger hovered over a portion of the chart that Weaver hadn't studied.

"I was wondering...when do we start on my actual training? The stuff you said you'd teach me, so I could be like a real Interceptor," Weaver bit her lip. The Sky Knight's old squadron was dangerous territory. "You know, disguise, stealth, resisting torture...err, making stuff up..."

She'd expected a head slap, at least. Possibly some kind of blasting about why she wasn't ready for anything like that, or why the training she was doing now was quite adequate, thank-you-very-much!

Starling turned to her. Her olive eyes were blazing. She was practically _vibrating_ with energy. Weaver stumbled back, broke the eye connection.

"Well, now, if you'd like."

* * * * * * * * * *

That was around three years ago. Starling _had_ trained her. Had even bought Weaver a skimmer- the girl loved that skimmer more than life. An Air Skimmer III. No squadron crest. That had cut a little.

Then Starling had left.

A mission. She'd refused to tell Weaver what it was. But the stubborn streak that had preserved the grin and the wink had stirred. Starling had reasoned, then acted superior. Told Weaver it was none of her _damn_ business, and Starling hadn't trained her to be such an ignorant idiot. Wouldn't she rather not know, in case she was caught and interrogated?

Weaver didn't quite like that logic. She'd rather be interrogated about something she did know, so that she had something to refuse to tell them. It made it more bearable, she felt.

Finally- she was going undercover, in Cyclonia.

She told Weaver, in no uncertain way, that she was TO DO NOTHING until Starling got back. Which was why now, three years later, Weaver found herself crouching in the shade of a craggy rock on Terra Saharr, watching a Cyclonian mining camp through binoculars...

* * * * * * * * * *

I _do_ apologize for the sheer awfulness of that chapter. But I promise, honest, that next chapter will actually be an exciting escapade involving Weaver and the Cyclonians. :3


	4. Chapter 4

Lalalala..._reviews? _=]

NB: If you're wanting some timescale to this, you'll probably pick up the hints in this chapter...but yeah, I'm assuming that Starling was in Cyclonia for quite a few years before she helped the Storm Hawks, seeing as how she got herself all trusted with a high position, or sommat like that. Anyhow!

* * * * * * * * * *

Starling had impressed upon Weaver the absolute vitality of knowing as much as she could about _everything_. Often with the back of her hand. The days of Cyclonia = evil, Atmos = good, and damn the rest, were well gone, suppressed beneath intricate layers of politics. Research was what made a back-story convincing, what allowed her to slip in tiny details that made her lies sound more like the truth than the truth did. So when Weaver was assigned a mission, she had researched it thoroughly.

...That was a new experience, trying to decide her own missions. How did Starling come up with plans? How did she know where the Cyclonians were, and what could be done about them? Weaver had been...lost. Without the firm voice of her Sky Knight, informing her of exactly what they were doing and why, she didn't function. So for three years, she had trained, like Starling was still there. Slowly she had started to hate it. She wasn't achieving anything. It'd be more worth her time if she just went back to Terra Tarlk. Surely they'd have forgotten the...incident, by now.

No. Nuh-huh.

Starling was in _Cyclonia_. And Weaver wasn't going to crawl back to her tavern, however much she loved the damned place, and pretend like nothing had happened. She'd just have to figure something out.

...The Sky Council...

Heck, she was living on Terra Atmosia. She hadn't even gone _near_the Sky Council. They had been way out of her league. She wasn't a Sky Knight...she wasn't even in a squadron. But Starling had trained her so that she could do something! That had to be enough. And it wasn't like she'd been in quarantine during that Storm Hawks debacle...there probably wasn't a person on Atmosia who'd missed that! They were kids...she had to try.

They'd looked down their long, venerable noses at her. Opened a book. Their words fell as heavily as their tomes. They'd never been exactly welcoming, but since the Aurora crystal was destroyed...

"Well, we will try to find some suitable mission for you, miss...ah, Weaver. But we can't promise, you understand. And, ah, how old are you, my dear?"

"Nineteen," hissed Weaver through clenched teeth. Just _because_ she'd hit fifteen and ceased all skyward growth.

"Ah, not quite old enough then..." The one with the glasses ran silvery eyes down the pages of a book. It was old, a burnished yellow colour, and covered in a neat, scritchy hand.

"Old enough for what?"

"Ah, the Sky Knight Starling left a ledger here for us...very basic, just requested us to ask you if you wished to enrol as a Sky Knight when you were twenty...there were requirements, but quite illegible, practically a scrawl, you understand, so we were forced to discard those."

Weaver stood stock still for a moment. Her mouth was coated with a bitter taste. "_Not_ instructions to enrol me as an Interceptor?"

"No, dear, as a Sky Knight, with your own squadron, and crest, and what not," he said, then trailed off into a mutter, "funny, a lot of very young people turning up to enrol...younger than you..."

"Uh, sir...what about that mission?"

"Ah, right, right. Well there has been a lot of Cyclonian activity around Terra Saharr...nothing too threatening...believed to be some kind of mining activity. All it requires is reconnaissance...perhaps sabotage, if the risk is not high..."

The way the sentences trailed off irritated Weaver. Sentences should finish, with a definite!

"Right you are sir! I'll just go do that then!"

She could almost sense their thoughts as she walk out, stirring the dust, '_how impatient...' _

* * * * * * * * * *

Everything on this rain-forsaken terra sizzled. The sky, completely bereft of even the wispiest trace of clouds, was an arching blue so bright it hurt to look at. High at its peak, the sun wallowed in a white-golden haze, saturating the terra with pulses of hot, dry light. Weaver could hardly believe there was anything alive between where she crouched and the huge, orange expanse to the edge of the terra; and yet insects thrummed constantly, a sharp, droning buzz. Even the air tasted dusty and warm.

Terra Saharr. It was nothing like Terra Tarlk; the whispering, grassy marshes and cool, shadowed pines seemed somewhat like a fantasy in the fierce, golden glare of the terra. Nothing like the ordered, beautiful city of Terra Atmosia, either. Here the landscape rose and fell and twisted in a frenzy, like a wild creature. A hostile, angry creature. Home to the Atmos' most renowned bazaar, a chaotic affair of tents and absolutely anything imaginable for sale. Home of the Atmos Great Race, and suspected Cyclonian activity... and the Third Degree Burners...who were missing. Far too coincidental.

Voices drifted up on the sandpaper breeze. They carried far in this type of terrain, and echoed eerily off the twisted stones that loomed over the craggy land. It looked like the ground stretched on flatly to the horizon...but there was no one between Weaver and the blue sky to have spoken. Unless...The girl flattened herself to the ground and clambered through the dirt, spreading her fingers out in front of her. The soil was gritty and bone dry, littered with larger rocks and...ah, yes. The edge of a precipice, hidden because the crimson soil here blended with the crimson soil on the other side of the crater.

The edge dropped away sharply. Terraces had been cut into the parched ground, and dark, gaping holes marked the entrances to mine shafts. Lean-to tents provided shelter and a canvass shaded a score of Talon marked skimmers. Carts on rails stood dormant, sparkling with shards of crystals. It would have seemed deserted, were it not for the sounds of shouting from the lean-tos.

"Huh, somebody's not happy. Well, shortest way down it is!"

Weaver sidled her legs over the edge, took a breath and- plunged down, limbs pulled in tightly and eyes squeezed shut. Her brain rattled in her skull and she could feel herself being jolted and spun down the slope. Then she opened her eyes giddily. And giggled. Too easy. Now she just had to –whoa, wait for the world to stop lurching- and then hide behind that cart.

Weaver ran her fingers over the crystal in her belt pouch. Sharp angles, pale blue in colour, a Geyser Crystal. It came with a guarantee and a wide smile from a short, wide crystal merchant that it would produce one big bang. Not refined, of course, but that didn't exactly matter if she was just...destroying stuff. And no, she wasn't going to tell him what she was destroying.

Weaver grinned, flashed the crystal a lightning wink, and tossed it into the cart. Clambering to her feet with a groan, she glanced at the cart, and settled on a lever. With another grin she yanked it- and was rewarded with an ear-splitting _screeeeeeeeaaaaaarrchchchch thunk rumble_. The cart rocked for a moment, then shuddered down the rails, disappearing into the maw of one of the mineshafts. She had about five minutes before the crystal destabilized. She slipped her hand into her belt pouch, fishing for a tiny stone. Weaver held the little frost crystal between her thumb and pointer. Light flashed off the sides, half obscuring the running figures she could see through the pale crystal.

Oh. Darn.

Weaver flicked the crystal back into the pouch and turned as nonchalantly on her heel as possible. Her heart beat against the inside of her ribcage. How stupid, not to realise that the screech would alert the Talons. _Act normal, breathe, think of something to say! _It was only a matter of time before-

"Hey, you! STOP!"

Weaver could imagine the Cyclonian with his crystal spear and one hand out in front. It could go two ways from here; she could run, try and clamber up the cliff face and to her skimmer before they caught up, or she could turn and...lie.

"Hey mate." The drawl was thick on her tongue as she turned. The Talon, a skinny bloke in all the regalia, had levelled his crystal spear with her head. "Just checkin' out your crystal mine...pretty impressive, you Cyclonian fellas." She had about three minutes before that crystal went ka-boom.

"This is restricted territory!" The Talon seemed fazed by her easy stance. Normally people acted scared, or fought, or well, ran away.

"Oh is it? Sorry mate, I'll just be on my way then," Weaver turned so rapidly that her words dragged in the air. The Talon's momentary confusion gave her that tiny gap she needed to frantically search the cliff for an escape route. There, straight ahead, a tiny path barely wider than her foot cut a zigzag in the rock.

She was running, head down and feet pounding frantically. The ground here was soft dust that slipped under each step. They hadn't started firing yet but that was probably down to shock.

"Huh"- something solid slammed across her neck, forcing the air out of her lungs. She stumbled, then an iron grip shackled her wrist and threw her against the cliff face. There was, unmistakably, the cold feeling of metal at her throat. She wasn't keen to open her eyes.

"Well well. A Sky Knight," a rough voice, edged with sharp venom. The grip on her wrist tightened, crushing the bones together. Weaver gasped and opened her eyes.

A red glare, brimming with loathing on the surface. But the deeper thoughts simmering behind the eyes were hidden.

"Not a Sky Knight," she whispered, feeling the blade tickle her skin. Two minutes...

* * * * * * * * * *

Wah wah wah waaaaaah!

So anyhow, if'n you didn't pick it up, she went and asked the Sky Council for a mission just after the Storm Hawks destroyed the Aurora Stone :3

Hopes you like it so far!


	5. Chapter 5

"Oh no? Part of a Squadron then, are you? Oh, yes...not the Third Degree Morons, by any chance?" The Dark Ace snarled. Weaver shuddered, broke the blaze of eye contact between hated crimson and terrified brown.

"I'm not part of any squadron! I told you lot, I'm just from round here!" There was nothing else for it. She was pretty much between a rock and...a sharp implement whether she lied or not.

"Oh, _of course_. Well I'll just let you be on your way then, shall I?" He seemed to relax.

Weaver felt hope spring up, "that'd sure be--"

The Dark Ace flicked his blade away. His free hand caught around Weavers throat; she felt her breath hitch and then stop. She tried to thrash but the pressure in her head, the red and black that shadowed across her vision, the burning ache in her chest made it impossible.

"Normally I prefer to defeat enemies in the sky...but if you _insist_ you're a civilian..." that voice was...almost hot with anger, but so calm...

She could feel her face going red. Her hands were scrabbling against the cliff, gouging into the soft red rock. Coherent thoughts were slipping away into shadows...if she could just force her body to respond, use the frantic adrenaline pounding in her veins...

"Dark Ace, sir! An airship has been detected in the immediate airspace. We believe it's the Condor!" The Dark Ace snarled, relaxed his grip for a moment. Weaver gasped, her lungs fighting for every second of that breath. Her knee snapped up; and she felt for a moment as though time froze. Then the hand wasn't around her throat, and she was slithering downwards onto her knees, throwing herself away from the hunched figure of the Dark Ace.

She had to get up that cliff, _had to_, or she'd never get away at all. Her mind didn't engage with her legs as she pelted up the tiny path, and flung herself onto her skimmer. She stopped, for a fraction of a second; peered into the mining crater. Grinned to herself, and winked. She didn't think anybody would see.

* * * * * * * * * *

"P_iiii_per! Where _are_ we?"

"Finn! You asked me that two minutes ago!"

"So? Where are we_ now?_"

"Argh! Finn, we're two minutes closer to Terra Saharr than we were when you last asked! Now go...play guitar or--" Piper tried to stop herself, but it was too late; she'd already said it. _Guitar._

"Hah! Yes! You gave me permission, now you can't complaiiin!"

Piper cradled her face in her hands and sighed. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder, and looked up into Aerrow's green eyes. They were glinting with amusement. She risked a tiny smile.

"Stork, what is our status?" Aerrow asked the Merb, who was hunched over the flight instruments of the Condor, eyes flicking rapidly between them.

"Fuel is fine...speed is about average...everything seems to be fine, except for the geyser which is about to destroy us...." Storks eye twitched and he placed his hands almost reverently on the Condor's controls. Geysers were fairly easy to avoid, really, but you never could be sure, with giant spouts of water...

"What?" Squeaked Piper, "what geyser? Stork, can you get us any closer so I can check it out?"

Aerrow leaned against the observation windows of the bridge. "Hey yeah, it looks like some kind of giant water feature on Terra Saharr! And there's a skimmer heading right for us!"

"Could be some kind of Cyclonian trap...I knew it. We're doomed."

"Aerrow," said Piper, "they're coming this way. It looks like they're in real trouble. We should help."

Aerrow's brown furrowed, minutely. He swept a hand across his red hair. "You're right, Piper. It could be a trap but we can't risk it...Sky Knights are meant to help. Stork, can you pilot the Condor nearer to the skimmer?"

* * * * * * * * * *

The skimmer shuddered, sparks and smoke dancing across the engine. The machine, and Weaver, were saturated. She clenched her teeth against the freezing cold rush of air that was washing over her soggy form. The airship was getting closer. It would have to be the Condor, wouldn't it? And the Condor was piloted by the Storm Hawks. That at least sounded hopeful.

The airship loomed up out of a cloudbank. Sun glinted off its metal hull and the huge glass panes of the bridge. Dully, Weaver realised she was going way too fast- the ship's runway was surging up towards her. With cold, slow fingers, she clutched at the breaks. The skimmer slowed, loosing height and lift, and she retracted her wings; the tyres swung out, in time to hit the runway and squeal as they skidded on an angle towards the air skimmer bay. The skimmer swayed and then toppled and Weaver was flung off. Her entrance could have, perhaps, been a little more graceful.

She got up, groggily. She wasn't alone.

There were five...well, kids, standing by their own skimmers, watching her warily. The biggest one- wait, a Wallop- was staring at her mangled skimmer with a horrified fascination.

"Cool landing, dude!" The voice was enthusiastic, and belonged to a blond boy, who was grinning. Weaver returned a feeble grin.

"I'm Aerrow, Sky Knight, and this is my squadron, the Storm Hawks. Who are you?" The voice was young, but brimming with confidence. Weaver glanced over the one who had spoken- red hair, sharp green eyes, a blue, err, thing on his shoulder. He stood easily with his arms crossed.

"Weaver. I don't have a squadron, but I did train under the Interceptor for a year." She caught the glance between Aerrow and the girl. It said _can we trust her?_

"I'm sorry about, err, dropping in so uninvited. I was doing some recon, and, well, sabotage on a Cyclonian mining camp on Terra Saharr. The Third Degree Burners are missing, too...and then I had a slight run-in with the Dark Ace and a geyser crystal." She brushed damp strands of hair off her face, and glanced back at her skimmer. It was _ruined_. "If you could drop me off at the next wayside, I'd be entirely grateful...I'd be off now, only my skimmer is...well, you can see it."

"No way! You gotta stay for a while! Junko here's an excellento mechanic! He can fix up your skimmer, right buddy?"

"Uhm, sure Finn, but Aerrow..." So Finn was the blond, and Junko was the Wallop. And Aerrow was definitely the leader.

"Aerrow says that's fine," smiled Aerrow. So they trusted her. That was a relief. "Weaver, did you know the Third Degree Burners escaped from Zartacla just a few days ago? And Starling was on the Condor, oh...two weeks ago, was it Piper?"

"Yeah, 'bout that," confirmed the girl.

Weaver heard the words like tiny stings. "Oh. I didn't know she was out of Cyclonia."

Saw Aerrow and Piper frown.

"She helped us get the Aurora stone back off Master Cyclonis, and she went to Terra Atmosia to see the Sky Council with us. But...she's probably been very busy." Piper tried to soften the blow. It wasn't working.

She'd been _on_ Terra Atmosia, and she hadn't told Weaver that she was back? Why?

"Ah, okay. Look, thanks for your hospitality but the next wayside is fine, really..."

Piper took her by the elbow, and smiled at her. "Oh, no Weaver, we wouldn't dream of it!"

* * * * * * * * * *

Ahhh that's done. Don't know how well I managed to write the Storm Hawks. Ehh.

**This is just a notice for those who've been reading- I've just gone back to school so please excuse the longer than usual gap between chapters. =]**


	6. Chapter 6

It was easy, watching the sky turn.

In the morning, when the sun stirred through the clouds that hemmed the horizon, it was a weak gold. The sky was bleached, a mass of grey and white, pure shadow and light, pierced by the fading stars. The bridge was a cavern of darkness, touched by hints of silver, pooling through the windows, slicking over the angles of the flight instruments, brushing across her face.

The day warmed as the sun arced upwards. Bright, fierce yellow, like it had been over Terra Saharr. The sky was such a blue...bright blue, the clouds burned away by the sun. The windows absorbed the warmth and the bridge smelled like old wood. Dust motes sparkled in the air, stirred by her breath. The Storm Hawks bustled around her; they were absorbed in routine, didn't notice her.

Afternoon saw the sun weary, falling slowly from the zenith. New clouds, rimmed in gold. Shadows crept back into the bridge, cloaking everything with a sense of age, a sense of tiredness. Stork was a constant, moving effortlessly in his element, muttering to himself, stroking the Condor, love at his fingertips. The sky through the windows was tainted pink, fading to a deep blue.

Weaver watched the sun trace its path, East to West, an arch in the frame of the Condor's windows. When she could, she curled up in a corner, legs crossed, head resting against the cool metal wall. She liked to watch the bustle. The Storm Hawks seemed to like this endless journey through the skies, though she could feel the tenseness in the air, the constant edge of wired anticipation.

Piper perused. When she came onto the Bridge, she ran dusky fingers over charts, had quick, efficient conversations with Stork. Aerrow stood, and watched, Radarr on his shoulder. He gazed out at the sky, thinking the thoughts of a leader; while Radarr thought the thoughts of...err. Finn...Finn ricocheted from one escapade to the next. She had watched with bewilderment as he had questioned Stork endlessly, and then switched to Piper, then...well, from somewhere, he had procured a guitar. That had been an experience. Junko filled the room with a simple ambience of joy and contentment. Bounced his personality off Finn.

And Weaver watched, and thought her own quiet thoughts. Acted human, and sociable, when required; laughed at meals, grinned, winked, helped to shift things, ventured ideas. But heavier things distracted her. When she lay, in the cool darkness, shutting doors on her thoughts, they kept coming.

She stared at the ceiling. Her body was relaxed, her hands flat by her sides, limp, numb. The Storm Hawks, with their effortless companionship, left her yearning for the familiarity of her days with Starling. Weaver bit her lip and remembered the days _before_ Starling, the days with Gyro and her tavern. The pain had long since eased, and now she could go days before the chink of glasses, or the smell of pines, made her yearn for her father. But Starling...

Starling had a past. Weaver_ knew_ that. She knew, in fact, that the tiny spark of pain was irrational. There was no way she could expect a woman, a Sky Knight, who had Starling's past, to owe her anything. Expecting Starling to show any attachment was demanding disappointment for herself, and demanding something from the Sky Knight that was probably...so deeply suppressed that Starling didn't even realise it wasn't there.

And then there was that face. How many people had seen that face in nightmares? The sharp cheekbones, a sneer pulling on his thin nose, his lips drawn bake in a snarl over shark-teeth. Red irises, the colour of half-dried blood, boiling with a thin layer of constant emotion. Rage, she had seen, but she didn't think it would always be there. Perhaps they'd be calculating. But always, behind that sheer veil of emotion, she felt there would be the deeper thoughts, the dark thoughts that would never surface.

It swam in her mind, along with the ghost of the red haze that had filled her mind, the primal terror, the fear of her demise. And, try as she might, she couldn't understand. Knew that her basic thoughts were a hatred, a fear, a disgust. Traitor, murderer, monster. But that was so elementary. What was beyond that?

Weaver cut off the thoughts by flicking on the light. She sat up, blinking blearily, yawning. She needed to get off this ship and do something.

* * * * * * * * * *

Weaver slipped through the door and onto the bridge. They'd let her sleep. The day was grey, heavy rainclouds dashing across the windows.

"Morning, Weaver," smiled Piper.

"Morning," she yawned, clutching her forearms. Weaver followed Piper into the kitchen, breathed in the light smell of pancakes. She was familiar with the cupboards by now. She had an instinct, for finding her way around kitchens. Weaver knelt, fetching seven plates. They were mismatched and chipped, but clean and well loved. They spun a little as she put them on the table. Piper turned, flicked out the pancakes. Finn was already at the fridge, about to swig the milk when Aerrow snatched it out of his hand. He scowled as Aerrow grinned. They were all quiet, not quite awake.

Junko walked in, followed by Stork; Radarr was suddenly at the table without warning. Biting her lip at the oversight, Weaver fetched another plate. Safe, not sorry. She didn't quite understand what Radarr's status was.

"Hey Piper, these are great!" Mumbled Finn, through a mouthful.

"Thanks Finn. It's not like I haven't had plenty of practise," Piper jibed, lightly. "Aerrow, I think we should stop off at Terra Atmosia. We need more crystal fuel...and food." Finn and Junko smiled, sheepishly. Weaver stirred from staring at her plate.

"That'd be perfect for me to get off," she grinned, "and stop imposing on your hospitality, lazy as I am."

"Hah! Nowhere near as bad as Finn." Piper, of course.

The chairs scraped back together, in an aura of agreement. Like a machine, the plates were piled up into the sink, the chairs pushed in, and they filtered out of the kitchen.

* * * * * * * * * *

Weaver spared one last glance. The Storm Hawks were spread in a straggling line down the street, their attentions captured by the offerings of Terra Atmosia's shops. It must be strange, to live a life constantly in the air, never staying in any one town. She dragged her eyes away, and twisted the throttle of her skimmer. The streets whirled past, and the dominating bulk of the sky council building, and then the town faded into green forests. Weaver smiled. Something lay ahead, she knew.

* * * * * * * * * *

That was a fairly...er, thinking chapter. And I really needed to get her somewhere, and update. Therefore, not exciting =[ _Buuut_, next update shall be action action action!

And, thank you very much for all my lovely reviewers and message senders. You are loverly 3


	7. Chapter 7

Wind, rough on her face, running cold fingers through her hair. Atmosia was tinted the blue of a winter dusk, and the cobalt silhouettes of naked trees raked over the dirt road. Weaver felt the chill of her bike's metal through her fingers, and clenched her grip around the throttle. The road twisted and scrambled through the lightless forest, towards the tiny white blotch circled by trees.

Weaver slid off the skimmer, wheeled the bike to the wall. Smoke curled calmly from the cottage's chimney. The door was open, a thin slice of more evening shadow. A crisp, wooden smell drifted towards her, and she inhaled deeply; the scene might be calm but she was not. Her nerves buzzed. This was not expected, and yet there was only one other who ever came here, who called it a home.

She sidled through the door, into a hallway of familiar shapes glowing grey in the darkness. Light seethed through the cracks around the kitchen door. Adrenaline surged into her blood in a thousand tiny droplets.

Opened the door, caught a flash of purple hair, a slender figure leant over the hearth. Heard the intake of breath, saw the hand whip the nun-chucks from a hip. Eyes dragged across the room, settled on a metal pan. Weaver staggered to the counter, curled her fingers around the pan. Pivoted on a heel. Pan met crystal with a reverberating _crassssh_ that vibrated through the little kitchen. Eyes met with a spark of recognition and an iron grip curled tight on Weaver's shoulder. The pan was torn from her hand.

"Weaver!"

"Who the else would it be!?" She cried, fending away the nun-chucks with the arm that wasn't aching under Starling's grip.

"Where were you?" Starling hissed, her eyes narrowing. "You weren't here when I came back, and that was days ago."

"If you really want to know, I was with the Storm Hawks, your new best friends!" It was childish, but Weaver could feel the bitterness rising in her throat. "You didn't even bother to let me know you were back. And you were here, right here on Atmosia! Now let go of me."

Starlings grasp tightened for a second, and then the woman let her arm fall.

"Girl, I had just left Cyclonia after blowing my cover and having the life beat out of me by Master Cyclonis. I had some rather pressing things to do."

"Huh. Sure. You think that makes it okay? You think I haven't been getting the messages? The skimmer, this uniform, _that letter_ to the flaming Sky Council! You don't _want _me around. I thought-"

"You thought what? That just because I saw fit to train you, because you didn't have anybody else, that suddenly I'd forget everything...everything that hap-...that I'd forget the truth of what I am, and start up a happy new squadron, the _Interceptors Mark 2?_ Maybe it can happen for the Storm Hawks, but not here, girl. Not with me." Starling broke her glare from Weaver's face, but not before the girl saw the sparkle of moisture.

"So that's it, then? You forbid me from doing anything on my own and then you tell me I can't follow you. What am I then?" Weaver hissed, her nose taught with a snarl.

"You're a wingman. The dependable one, the one the Sky Knight relies on, but not the leader, not the stupid courageous one! Heck, I was a wingman, I was just the wingman! And here I am, Starling, Sky Knight, the only Interceptor left, because there was nothing else I could be. But you're not _my_ wingman!" Starling cradled her face in her hand, swathed in the flickering shadows and the hot, orange light from the hearth.

"Fine! I'll just go sit in the Wastelands then! Or better yet, why don't I just go jump ship to Cyclonia!"

"Weaver, if you're going to say stupid things like that, I think you'd better go."

* * * * * * * * * *

The wind was rough on her face again, prickling her skin, dragging away the warmth of her cheeks. Dragging droplets from her squinting eyes, but she _knew_ they weren't tears, because she _knew_ she wouldn't cry over this. But the confusion loomed around her, sucking at her from all angles, filling up the empty sky like a beaker, a beaker full of confusion, despair, loneliness, and she was drowning. One threat of coherence, of certainty, sparkled in her haze of thoughts. She didn't know where it had come from or why she had thought it, but she was following its blazing path through the skies of Atmos, a tiny figure on a silent skimmer, under the emotionless gaze of the stars.

That tiny figure had cruised this path once before, under spring skies, intoxicated with the thrill of adventure and the noxious winding of guilt. Following another familiar figure, on a purple skimmer, the covert spy using her skills against her mentor.

She'd just wanted to know where it was that Starling went, what it was that made the Sky Knight slam the door when she returned, and slink away into the woods for hours. The only time she'd ever seen the mist of tears in Starling's eyes was when the Sky Knight came back from her explanationless journeys. So she followed, and when she was delivered her answers, guilt had crawled up from her stomach, clambered up her throat, settled poisonously in her mind.

It was a darker scar against the blackness of the sky. A tiny terra, struggling against the wreath of clouds, with barely room for the folly that crowned its west-facing slope. Weaver landed her skimmer, lowered it to the ground against a grassy knoll with reverence. The terra sighed as the chill wind brushed across auburn stems. Weaver picked her way up steps hewn from the natural granite, and trailed a hand across a stone column as she entered the folly's arched dome. From here, the highest point of the tiny terra, the faded lights of a larger terra were visible on the horizon, through the wisps of cloud. Terra Mesa, Weaver recalled. One time home of the Interceptors and Starling. Now under the bloody hand of Cyclonia. And here she stood, on the Interceptors Folly. Only those who knew its significance knew the name of the terra.

She looked up, into the murky recesses of the dome. Barely visible, dark indigo against a paler violet, wings spread, head reared in defence. The Interceptor shield. Her eyes trailed downwards, to the bronze plaque between her boots. Faded black letters against the flecked metal read:

_Here lie the bodies, hearts and souls of who sacrificed themselves for their cause. Alongside lie the hearts, souls and thoughts of those left behind._

She shuddered, and collapsed slowly to her knees. Stroked the plaque, and knew that it could never mean as much to her as it meant to Starling. Wished it had been otherwise, wished everything had been otherwise. The Gyro's leathery skin, his crinkled voice, and tears flowed. She imagined she felt a steel grip on her shoulder, telling her come, come home. Turned, and saw only the night rearing away to the lights of Mesa.

She walked down the path, brushing tears away brusquely. Swung herself onto the skimmer, like she had a thousand times, and twisted the throttle. Flicked the switch and the wings unfolded with satisfying clunks. The gut-wrenching lurch as gravity clutched at girl and skimmer, but skimmer triumphed, an old friend. _Home, home._

Her thoughts of humble apology, the plea begging in her mind, that she'd take anything, anything Starling cared to give her, just don't leave her alone, were broken by shudders and judders that were not familiar. The engine whined, spitting gauzy smoke trails, and gravity pulled tighter, and the skimmer did not triumph. Weaver felt that she should scream, but there was nobody to hear, and besides, what would it achieve? Not much more than her frantic tugs on the handles, her stream of curses at the skimmer to _work, dammit!_

She was spiralling, plunging down towards the permanent sheath of clouds that cloaked the wastelands, and she imagined she could see the arching, jagged spikes of obsidian rock and the flaming coils of lava rivers. Imagined, in her terror, Starling's iron grip around her arm.

The skimmer kept plunging but Weaver was jerked to a stop, dangling over death. She looked up, followed the hand around her arm to the arm that was not hers, and up that arm and over the shoulder and to a pair of violet eyes.

"When you're being stupid, you go all out, don't you?"

And Weaver croaked, "will you take me home?" and barely saw the fractional tilt of consent of Starling's head. Yes, home, home.

* * * * * * * * * *

I enjoyed writing this! I hope you wonderful readers enjoy reading it!

And a special kudos to Stylo-Binge, alicat259, and exquisitness. Thou three art loverly.


	8. Chapter 8

"You saved me." Hands around a steaming mug, the morning bustle of the street reflected in caramel eyes.

"Yes. And?" In a crisp accent and with a husk to the words. Emerald eyes tracing lines on the ceiling, mouth drawn tight with concern.

"Why? You don't want _friends_, or, or, a companion." A tiny frown, a line between dark eyebrows, and the sideways glance at the woman sprawled in the chair next to her.

"Sky Knight's duty to save people. And if you're thrust the mantle, you have to take it...But you want the real reason?" Starling shifted, leaning forward over the table.

Weaver licked her lips, dry on dry. She wasn't completely sure if she wanted to hear. "...yes."

"I owed it to Gyro. I owed it to you- heck, what kind of monster knows a kid's going somewhere to do something stupid and doesn't do anything? A Cyclonian, that's who. I saw plenty of that stuff undercover. I don't need any more of it. But don't go expecting me to profess to a sudden epiphany of affection for you. That isn't going to happen; this isn't that kind of world."

The pair sat in the corner of a patisserie. Both stared out the window, watching the flicker of dawn life on the street, bodies almost, but not quite, facing each other. They breathed in the aromas of cinnamon, the dry, warm smell of pastry. Starling swirled dark tea, with a soft _clink clink_ of the spoon. And they both recalled the silent flight through the stars, the memory reflected on their faces.

"What now?" Weaver sipped the tea, and the hot liquid slipped down her throat, chasing away the chills of night.

"You're asking a lot of questions, you know."

"I know. It's kind of a bi-product of being completely lost."

Silence. Contemplation, thoughts chasing each other through the heads of the two women, the two etches of humanity in a quiet store.

"Girl...Weaver," Starling's voice caught, softened. "You can't stay with me. I'm sorry. But don't ask that of me."

Weaver shuddered, a fear realised. "I won't. I'll go back to Gyro. We'll start a new tavern..." her voice faded as she faced the reality of those words. They condemned her to forgetting all this, forgetting the tiny electric thrill she'd felt as the water surged up, up around her, knowing that even as she faced that danger she'd helped, just a little. Helped something bigger than the tiny world she had always known.

"You won't. You know you won't. But you're missing it, girl. You are missing the answer and it's sitting next to you."

Weaver's eyes swung up, skimmed the coffee table, the chair, the floor, the white-washed room.

"You want me to become a patisserie chef?" Even as she said it, she knew that in the old days, before Starling went away, she'd have earned herself a head-slap.

"A stupid streak a mile wide! Me, dolt. A wingman, no Squadron, no Sky Knight, nothing left. So you learn to be what you always followed, and you follow yourself."

"But I'll have to go to the Sky Knight Academy! No waaay."

"Cut that out, or I'll change my mind about you. Weaver, I _know_ you went to the Sky Council, and asked them for a mission. Stands to reason, they told you about my ledger. _I _trained you. Sure, there's some that would say that it's against the "code", but I'd say you've been put through as much as those pups at the Academy have been. And completed a practical mission. If that's not qualified, then the Council can jump off the terra."

Colour crept up Weaver's face, flushing tan skin a pallid red. And already she could feel the thirst, the absolute desire, for that title.

"I...yes! Oh, score, score, thank YOU, Starling!"

"I just take the practical option. Don't go making anything out of it."

But she was already up, sculling the last of her coffee, skittering coins onto the table. Flashed a grin at the astonished Sky Knight and was out the door, pounding through the crowds to the might stone edifice of the Sky Council.

"Sign me up!"

The venerable noses, silver eyes under raised brows over half moon-glasses. A flash of déjà-vu. Only, now she stood, cleansed of the fierce agony that had come from Starling's blunt rejection, burning with the flame of ambition.

"Excuse me?"

"Uhhhhh. Sorry, sir. I'm Weaver, Starling's sent me with instructions to sign myself up as a Sky Knight, she said you'd understand." Rapid inventing, but it was...mostly true.

"Hm. Well, if you'd just sign here, and here. And you shall need to lodge your Squadron name-"

"Oh, I don't have a Squadron. Is that a problem?"

"Well, no, only a little unorthodox. But you shall still, as I was saying, need to submit your Squadron name, _even_ if you do not as yet have a Squadron, and your Squadron shield here for approval within the month."

"Definitely!" A thought dropped, spun to the front of her mind. Name, crest, where would she get them? She'd have to ask Starling, and then she'd have to do some sketches, terrible as they would be, and then...then she'd visit Gyro, and then, it was on to greater things!

* * * * * * * * * *

Setting up chapter for the next adventure, only short, I know, I know. Thanks again to my reviewers, and a hello to my readers! *nudge*reviews*nudge*


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